The Arnheim Campaign
by Horatio von Ruther
Summary: Several thousand years after its original construction, the city of Arnheim, on the eastern shores of Naggaroth, largely serves as a point of pride to the high elves, and a thorn in the side to the servants of the Witch King. However, Arnheim is one point of pride that, for the entirety of its existence, has proved a bloody proving ground for druchii and asur alike.


Esilif hunkered down onto the grindstone seat. Kicking up the pedal, he began the process of sharpening the axe he had been working on for the last week. It was one of his better works, commissioned by an elf of minor nobility in Arnheim. The noble had asked for a sturdy double-headed axe.

This axe was more durable than what Elisif was used to forging, as it was made of silver steel from the hilt to the tips of the two blades. A fine material, to be sure, but it reeked of the druchii influence in the region, and he was much fonder of ithilmar, it being the metal of choice for high elf smiths.

Elisif sighed, thinking of how hard conditions had been the last two months. Reports claimed a resurgence in druchii raiders had been taking its toll on the patrols guarding the supply ships, crippling or sinking at least one with each attack. The damned dark kin were going to bleed Arnheim dry at this rate.

After a few more minutes of grinding the blades, Elisif stood up and walked around his porch to the front door, and walked in. Sliding the axe onto a side-table, he sat down at the dining table. Looking around, he took in the rustic feel of his country cottage. Stone foundations with wooden walls, a few small windows of rough glass allowing views into the surrounding forests, topped off with a thatch roof. It was quaint and humble, and attended to by his young apprentice, Arelle.

Presently, Arelle stood in the corner with the stove. "You're just in time, sir, dinner is about to be ready." Elisif nodded. The young elf maiden was under his wing to be a smith of her own. A peculiar profession for a woman, but she was eager to learn and already had a respectable skill at the trade. And she was pleasant to look at to boot.

Arelle walked over to the table, food and drink in hand. She set them down on the table, uttered a quick prayer to Isha, and they began eating. Tonight was rabbit breast, a quarter loaf of bread, some cheese, and a glass of Ulthuan vintage wine to wash it all down. It was an uninteresting meal, but one Elisif had always been fond of for its flavor despite the simplicity. More importantly, however, was that it would give him energy to keep him going at the forge as the cold winter began to set in. It occurred to him that the recent druchii raids were probably a desire to push out the raiding season as far as they could.

He brought up the thought to Arelle, to which she merely said "Then let the ice take the bastards."

They continued to eat in silence. Arelle finished first, and as she stood up she announced she would go get firewood to last the night before latching the door for the night. She set her plate and glass on the counter near the stove, and walked outside. Elisif could hear her boots clomp on the porch as she closed the door. He took a sip of his wine, then dabbed at the meat juices on the plate with his bread. Then he heard something outside slump against the wall.

"Arelle?" he called. Looking through the windows he couldn't see anything. "Arelle?" he called again, standing up and reaching the door in two long strides. Opening the door to the crisp early winter air, he looked around the frame along the side of the house. Nothing along the front side. Elisif moved along the wall and turned to the side of the house, and looked down. "By Asuryan!" he exclaimed, crouching besides his apprentice. A red-fletched crossbow bolt protruded from her chest.

"Arelle, can you speak!?" Elisif asked her, fearing the worst. She let out a pained moan. By now, blood was flowing from the wound. Elisif bit off a piece of his sleeve and daubed at the wound to alleviate the blood loss. Frantically, he looked around for the source of the bolt. A rustle in the bushes a few yards distant told him the answer, when a black and red sliver shot out at him, slamming his left shoulder. He staggered and cried out in pain, then ran back towards the door.

Opening the door just enough to grab the axe at the nearby side-table, Elisif sprinted back in the direction of his assailant. Pain seared across his collar, and he slowly lost feeling in his left-hand fingers. "Come out and face me, coward!" he yelled at the bushes.

A dark figure stood up and answered his call. "So bet it" he laughed. As the druchii walked out into the clearing, he unsheathed a cruel-looking sword with several hooks along the side opposite the blade. It had long serrations along the cutting edge itself. Swinging it back and forth, the dark elf strode towards Elisif.

When the marauder had closed to within fifteen feet, Elisif pulled out his dagger from its sheath. "Ah, thank you for making this entertaining" the druchii snickered. At that moment, he charged, laying his sword about the air like an overseer driving a crowd of slaves. Elisif realized that was actually where the dark elf had likely learned the technique from. The attacker strafed to disorient Elisif's first swing. He was not suited towards being the one using his own weapons, and thus his first swing indeed missed the target.

The druchii sidestepped to Elisif's left, ramming the flat of his sword into Elisif's chest, then raked the hooks across Elisif's torso. Elisif would have screamed had the initial hit not just about winded him. Clenching his jaw at the pain and twisting to his side, Elisif tried backhanding the attacker with his dagger. By that time, however, the druchii was completely behind him. He kicked Elisif's legs out from under him, and he fell to the ground as his knees collapsed.

Looking up from the ground, Elisif saw the face of the druchii looming over him, a sick leer on his face. The marauder spat in Elisif's face before smacking the side of his head with the flat of the blade, and the world turned black amidst the laughter of several voices speaking in druhir.

. . .

"Good work, Kadril" Cyrus lauded over the laughter. "Quite the show, quite the show."

"Why thank you, dread lord" Kadril responded. "I'm glad it pleases Your Cruelness."

"Indeed it does. Now, as to our two new prisoners…" Cyrus began, pondering the fates of the asur before him. "Send the maiden to the men, to do with as they see fit. That ought to boost morale. The old man will go to our _great_ lord general, Frederick. And how about we send his shiny little axe to the bloody Khainites, shall we? A little positive reputation with them can't hurt, and I'm sure one of them needs a new execution toy by now."

The druchii laughed again. It was common practice to make fun of one's superiors and fellow commanders when said superiors and fellow commanders were not actually present. It might as well have been one of the Witch King's edicts, considering how often it occurred at all levels of dark elf society.

Rounding up the unconscious prisoners and tying them to the saddles of their horses, the dark elves headed off towards the large black cloud in the distance, the signal that doom incarnate would soon be visited on those who stood before it. The servants of the Witch King were marching to war.


End file.
